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Is it time to admit, once and for all, that teenagers are too young to rule?
Princess Mary might have been groomed from birth to be our future monarch, but at eighteen years, six months, and sixteen days old, she can barely be trusted to sign her name in the right place, and we as a United Kingdom and Commonwealth ought to be shaking in our boots at the very notion of her taking on the lifelong job of queen.
After all, what teen today isn’t far more occupied with their follower counts and ever-evolving trends than with politics and diplomatic relations? The royal family has always been an exception to the plague of modernity, or so we’re led to imagine. But while Princess Mary has been a shining star during her dozens of official appearances over the past six months, smiling for the cameras and shaking hands hardly qualifies her to lead on the global stage.
I know what many of you must be thinking—no doubt of the last great queen who ruled our nation, Victoria, who ascended the throne at the age of eighteen. But times were different nearly two hundred years ago, and children were far more prepared to take on the responsibilities that came with their station. Now one cannot make small talk with anyone under the age of twenty without being accused of a slip of the tongue that leads to theatrical claims of offense. And while we have watched Her Royal Highness as she has grown from fragile newborn to the sunny young woman she is today, the palace has only recently begun to present her as our future sovereign, and in a time of great turmoil, the British people deserve the stability and reassurance that comes with the known.
Though the Regency Act of 2005 makes it clear that Her Royal Highness would be assisted by a so-called royal council, with the third in line to the throne being deliberately passed over in favour of the King’s illegitimate American daughter, it’s time to pose the question we’ve all been thinking: Just how seriously are we meant to take this farce of temporary rule?
Should the worst come to pass and His Majesty fail to recover from his reportedly severe injuries after the 12 January bombing, would Britain not be better off in the hands of a prince who has decades of experience as a working royal? A proper regency would require that Prince Nicholas, the Duke of York, rule in Princess Mary’s stead until her twenty-first birthday, allowing her more time to grow and mature into the monarch we all wish her to be. It would allow for fewer hiccups, no doubt, and certainly less wariness and scrutiny both within and beyond our borders.
With as much turmoil as the King and his wayward family have caused over the past seven months, is it too much to hope that perhaps the royals might finally prioritize the people and the stability of this country over their own privilege and entitlement? Or could we as a country finally find relief from this never-ending roller coaster of drama?
—Op-Ed in the Daily Sun, 17 January 2024
THE FIRST THING MY MOTHER does when we return to Windsor Castle is head straight for the shower.
“I’ll meet you in your rooms in twenty minutes, all right?” she says, her fingers running through my hair. “I just need to wash the hospital smell off.”
She says this with a slight shudder, and I’m too wrung out to tell if she’s trying to keep things lighthearted, or if it really does bother her. Either way, I agree, and I drop her off at Alexander’s apartment before sniffing my own hair. It also smells vaguely like antiseptic, and I wrinkle my nose.
“Evan?”
I whirl around. Rosie stands outside Maisie’s door, only twenty feet or so from Alexander’s. Her freckled face is pale and free of makeup, and she looks so startlingly lost that for a second, I’m sure something else has happened.
“Rosie?” I say. “What are you doing here? Is Maisie—”
“She’s in her sitting room,” says Rosie quickly, like she knows I can’t take any more bad news right now. “Your mum’s still in England? I thought…”
There’s something strange about the way she says this, like she’s putting the pieces of a puzzle together, and I can practically see the gears turning in her mind. “Yeah, she’s still here,” I say, glancing at Alexander’s door. There’s no point in lying, after all, not if Rosie’s already seen her. “She’s been staying at the hospital with Alexander.”
“Oh.” Rosie’s lips thin. “I didn’t know.”
Even though I’m not exactly her favorite person, not when I’m the one dating Kit, I expect her to ask something else—why my mom’s hanging around, maybe, or even how Alexander’s doing. But instead she tugs nervously at one of her blond curls, and I swear I see her gulp.
“Is Gia here, too?” I venture, and she shakes her head, her green eyes growing round.
“Maisie texted me earlier. She’s having a really bad day, and I thought maybe I could help, but all she’s really done is throw things and scream. I don’t…I don’t know what to do anymore.”
Her voice breaks, and I feel a sudden stab of pity for her. “I can try to talk to her, if you think she’ll let me,” I say, even though I know this is a terrible suggestion. Maisie’s barely been able to look at me since the news of the photo broke, and there’s a very real chance I’ll only make things worse. But Rosie nods eagerly, as if this is the greatest idea she’s ever heard.
“Maybe she’ll listen to you.” But as she says it, the faint sound of shattering glass echoes from inside Maisie’s apartment, and Rosie flinches. “Or at the very least, maybe she’ll stop breaking things. Some of those are priceless, you know.”
Taking a deep breath, I steel myself and approach Maisie’s door. I can feel Rosie’s nervous gaze on me as I knock, and I’m not at all surprised when Maisie’s snarl cuts through the air like a knife.
“I told you to piss off, Rosie!”
“Off to a great start,” I mutter before raising my voice. “It’s me. Can I come in?”
Maisie lets out a string of curses so obscene that I nearly abandon the whole idea. But before I can talk myself out of this entirely, her door flies open, and I’m face to face with my seething sister.
“What?” she says, and over her shoulder, I notice several picture frames and chunks of glass scattered across her cream carpet. After almost seven years in boarding schools, I’m no stranger to tantrums, but the ones I’ve witnessed didn’t involve artifacts older than most trees.
“My mom and I just got back from the hospital,” I say with all the nonchalance I can muster. “I thought you’d like an update.”
Maisie’s jaw is clenched, and her entire body seems to vibrate with pent-up emotion as she inhales. “Rosie,” she says after a beat. “Have someone bring us a pot of tea. Make sure it’s hot.”
The thought of Maisie being anywhere near boiling liquid right now isn’t exactly comforting, but Rosie nods and scurries off, and finally my sister stalks back into her apartment, leaving me room to step inside. I do so carefully, eyeing the floor for pieces of glass, not in the mood for another round of stitches.
